Cycling to Asylum

by Su J. Sokol

I bring up the program, narrowing the wrap-around holo to the smallest scatter. Just like I feared! There’s been a catastrophic collapse of the ecosystem in the area I’ve been monitoring. The animal populations will be doomed if something isn’t done. It’s up to me to save them.

  Scanning the regions bordering this zone, I find a safe refuge. I do some calculations. I could reroute the watering stream this way, to the north. I work on other calculations. If only I could be there, in my physical body, in the here and now! I would jump onto the back of the one I call Dark-eyes and ride him to safety. The others would follow for sure.

  I’m totally into the problem, creating a probability graph above my pentagon of constraints, when I hear a small noise on the other side of the room. I freeze. My fingers are still reaching out towards the screen and my body is surrounded by the glowing blue of the holo-images. I’m scared to breathe, even to think too loud. But it’s too late. I’ve been found.

  “Simon!” Mommy lets out a big whoosh of air as she says my name, making it sound like it has three syllables. “What am I going to do with you? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “It’s 4:12 a.m.,” I tell her, but this seems to make Mommy angrier. She walks up to me and puts her hands on my shoulders. Even though I’m nine and Mommy is a grown-up, she’s only a few inches taller than me. But somehow she seems a lot bigger.

  “Why do you do these things, Simon? You’ll be exhausted at school!”

  “The animals are dying. I need to save them.” Saving the animals is more important than going to my stupid school where Keri’s there to trip and push me and my teacher won’t let me draw and I have to show my steps for math even though I don’t have any steps. The only thing good about school is seeing my best friend, Henry.

  “Are you talking about that silly game again? You’re supposed to be taking a break from that. How did you get the password?”

  “It’s not a silly game. Animals are really dying. I saw on the newsfeed.”

  She sighs and speaks more calmly to me. “It’s true that there are animals in jeopardy, but not the animals in your game. The newsfeed is about real animals in the actual physical world.”

  “The animals I’m trying to help are the same animals as on the news. The same species.” I pronounce the word “species” carefully, so she can see I know what I’m talking about.

  “Yes, but the animals in the game aren’t real—really real—even if they’re based on reallive animals. It’s just a simulation, you know, a sim.”

  “They look the same as the animals on the newsfeed. And act the same.”

  “Simon, don’t you know the difference between real and pretend?”

  I don’t answer. Of course I know what is the difference between something real in the here and now, and something that’s made up. But what happens when a real thing is shown on my sim? Isn’t the thing it’s showing still real, even if what you’re looking at is not the thing in the here and now? That’s not the same thing as a completely made-up thing, like a unicorn or something. All I know is that real animals are really dying in the real world, just like in my sim.

  Mommy is looking into my eyes with her own eyes like she’s trying to beam her thoughts right into my head. But I don’t get what she’s saying. How are the animals on my sim different than the animals on the newsfeed? I’m sure the stuff I’m doing could help them. But whenever I argue with Mommy, I always lose. I mean, she’s a lawyer, so arguing’s what she does at her work, and she’s really good at it. Her words always sound better than mine, but does that make her right? Something’s either true or not, no matter whose words sound better.

  “Janie, is everything OK?” I hear Daddy ask from down the hall.

  All of a sudden I’m very tired and my chest is starting to feel tight, the way it does when I get an asthma attack. “Mommy, can I go back to bed now? I don’t feel so good.”

  Mommy looks like she’s still mad. But then she looks at me and all of a sudden she looks sad instead. I think she’s sorry she yelled at me. I go over and give her a big hug. She hugs me back and says she’ll come and tuck me in.

  So that’s how I find myself back in The Cube after my big escape, tired but not beaten.

  FIVE

  Siri

  When Mommy comes in to tell us to get ready for school, I’m already awake. She leans over the bottom bunk to wake Simon. He mumbles something about being tired and not wanting to go to school. Simon’s so lazy. He always falls asleep at least an hour before I do and now here he is asking to sleep more! If it were up to me, I’d never sleep at all. That way, I wouldn’t miss anything. I can’t wait until I’m older and can stay out hyper-late. Twelve is at least into the two-digits and next year I’ll be thirteen: an official teenager.

  In my drawer, I find my two new bras. Most of my girlfriends have bigger boobs than I do—mine are only small bumps—but I convinced Mommy to buy me these, telling her they’d protect me when I was playing sports. They’re sports bras actually, but one of them is kind of pretty with some lacy stuff on the straps. I’m not much into fancy clothes, but my friend Katima said I need to have at least one nice one just in case. Just in case of what I’m not sure, but it seemed like good advice.

  I grab a baseball jersey and a pair of shorts and go into the bathroom to pee and wash up. Before putting on my socks, I wiggle my toes, admiring the turquoise glow-in-the-dark polish that my friend Sierra painted there. I can’t let Mommy see or she’d strip it all off, claiming it was toxic and acting like I was being poisoned from the toenails up.

  I tell Simon it’s his turn in the bathroom, then tie on the friendship bracelet Michael made me. I’ll probably end up spending most of the weekend at his place as usual since Michael’s mom asked me to help out with Michael’s little brothers. I also told Michael I’d braid his hair, since Rebecca doesn’t know how. I think if you’re white and decide to have kids with a black man, you kind of have a moral obligation to learn how to do black hair. But it’s hard to hold it against Rebecca. She can’t help it that she’s so disorganized and doesn’t know how to do practical stuff. Anyhow, I don’t mind helping. Rebecca’s nice and treats me like I’m her own age.

  I put my ear piece in, pull my baseball cap over my eyes and grab my screen. Finally, I fish my mitt out from under my pillow and put it into my pack for practice later. I’ve been having to use my own regular glove to play catcher, which is usually OK except when the coach’s son pitches. He throws hard. He can’t do any other pitches, though—like curve ball or change-up. I can do four different types, but Coach didn’t choose me to pitch. David, Michael’s dad, said he’d help out this year. Maybe he can convince Coach to let me try out pitching.

  I peel my batter’s glove off my hand and take a peek. I wear the glove all the time now, even when I sleep. There’s a bluish bruise in the middle of my palm, crescent-shaped like the top of a baseball, and it doesn’t hurt so bad when I wear the glove. Plus, Mommy and Daddy would never let me keep catching if they saw my hand.

  Mommy’s pushing us out the door—we’re running late as usual. She hands Simon his lunch. I already told her I don’t want one because I plan to get pizza with my friends. Mommy’s lunches are embarrassing. She’s vegetarian so while other kids get to have big meat subs and good stuff like that, I’m stuck with fruits, little bags of veggies, and tofu nuggets. Someone always teases me and then I want to chuck the whole thing.

  Once on the street, I start jogging. Simon’s lagging behind so I yell at him to come on. We arrive at the R train station and there are two cops—a woman and a man—standing by the entrance, checking everyone out. They smile down at us. I take Simon’s hand and smile back.

  As we’re going through the old turnstiles, I hear the screech and loud clacking sound of a train coming into the station. I know it’s our train and not the one going the other way because of the direction of the hot wind hitting my cheek. “Come on!” I shout to Simon. “Let’s go for it!”

  As the train ru
mbles to a stop, I peer into the subway car that’s next to us and see that it’s mostly empty—a bad sign. If Mommy and Daddy were here, they’d pull us over quick to a different one. I try to do that with Simon, but he’s already going through the doors as they slide open, trying to beat me inside. No choice; I have to follow him.

  The only one in the car is this old homeless guy. I look at him sideways with my eyes slitted like I don’t care, even though he looks really sick. He’s wearing a torn and faded long-sleeved shirt with old-fashioned buttons, but half of them are popped off, and you can see his chest, which is skinny, and his stomach, which is kind of droopy and puffed out at the same time. He’s black but his skin looks grey-colored and dusty. He has white curly hair on his head, in his beard and coming out his ears. His face is a mess and his eyes are, like, half open and half closed. I think he’s kind of asleep. Worst are his feet, which look all puffed up and oozy and have rags wrapped around them.

  Simon has backed up as far away as he can get from the man, staring at him with his eyes all big and his mouth open, exactly the way you’re not supposed to act when you’re on the subway. Why doesn’t he know anything? I tell him that it’s impolite to stare, so he looks down at his own feet instead, frowning.

  “Get ready,” I say to him. “When the doors open again, we’re running for the next car.”

  We do, but the next car is packed with a gazillion people also trying to avoid the homeless guy. And the air-conditioning is only half working. Worse, my head is under someone’s armpit. Gross! This is almost as bad as being in the car with that smelly homeless man. At least there’s only a few more stops before we get out.

  Fourth Avenue—time to change for the F-train. The doors open and people pour out of the car. The doors stay open and we hear an announcement, something about a police action. We’re walking to the stairs when we see four cops, all men this time, stampeding by with their gear towards the car we’d first been in. Maybe they’ll take the homeless guy to the hospital. I watch the four cops go up to him. Then, one of them takes his phaser stick and smacks it down hard against the wall, like, two inches from the homeless guy’s head. The guy jerks up, then slumps down to the ground all quivery-like.

  “Let’s go,” I say to Simon, grabbing his arm. “We’re gonna be late!” Simon acts like he’s frozen in place, staring at the scene. I practically have to pull him up the stairs, but not before I see a second cop raise his stick up above the homeless guy’s body. I don’t hang around to see where it lands this time.

  We wait on the platform upstairs for the F train for long enough that my heart slows down most of the way. I feel a little sick. I turn to Simon and say, “Don’t tell Mommy or Daddy what happened.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’ll only make them upset. And then they won’t let us take the subway anymore.”

  “But …”

  “No listen, they’ll make us take the bus instead, which means getting to school twenty-five minutes early. I don’t know about you but no way I’m doing that. It’d be hyper-embarrassing, like I can’t wait to get to school or something.”

  Simon nods but he looks unsure. I know how he feels because I feel the same way inside. Maybe we should tell Mommy and Daddy what happened, but I don’t want to, and not just because of what I told Simon. I guess I feel kind of ashamed. Maybe they’ll think we should’ve done something. If Mommy were there, she would’ve helped the homeless man and Daddy would’ve stood up to those mean cops. But all I wanted to do was get away as fast as I could and forget the whole thing. Only problem is I can’t. I keep on seeing the man’s scared face and the way he tried to scoot away on his behind. Worst of all, I keep on seeing the phaser stick go up in the air and then, even though I didn’t see this part, I keep seeing it smash down hard on the homeless man’s body.

  SIX

  Laek

  The back courtyard behind our apartment is nothing more than a tiny concrete lot. Still, this bit of outdoor space makes our basement apartment a precious find. I look at Janie’s geraniums. Her stunted tomato plants. Simon’s antique rocking horse. Siri’s sports equipment.

  It was Siri and her sports that finally made me realize that I needed to tell Janie what happened. Last night I woke up, chest constricted in fear, to Siri’s sobs as she cradled her hand. Siri, who didn’t even cry when she’d dislocated her shoulder in the first grade. I carried her in my arms to the hospital, eyes straining for bus headlights. The doctor found two breaks in the bones of her hand. Almost called in Child Protective Services. Siri’d been living with this pain, day in and day out, continuing to play baseball. I asked her why she hadn’t said anything.

  My daughter explained it to me, voice earnest and sure: “Sometimes you have to take a hit for the team, Daddy.” She’d given other reasons as well. That she didn’t want to complain. And that she didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. Not the boy who kicked her hand with his cleat so she’d drop the ball. Not her coach, who made her play catcher with a regular glove because he kept forgetting she was a lefty. She kept quiet because she’s a team player. She kept quiet because she’s a girl and couldn’t appear weak. She kept quiet because that’s what victims do.

  What I told Siri was this: Sometimes we keep secrets and tell ourselves things about why we’re doing that. It’s not always the whole story.

  When Janie comes outside, we sit on the small iron bench chained to the wall. Her eyes are so open and trusting, I falter. Tell about the union meeting instead. Janie’s outrage warms me.

  “Are they fucking serious? Agree to report your students to Alien Defense and Security?”

  “I won’t do it,” I say simply. “But there’s more… more that happened that night.”

  I begin with the homeless woman who was thrown out of Union Square Park. And then my bike ride home, what happened with the cop. When I’m done, I find myself standing, looking down at the ground, arms folded across my chest. My heart is beating hard. Janie doesn’t say anything, so after a moment, I force myself to look at her.

  She’s gone pale. Then a flush of color creeps up her neck and into her cheeks. Her small fists clench and unclench once. She’s sitting very still, tightly controlled.

  I haven’t yet brought myself to meet her eyes. When I do, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. All the walls that had built up between us during the last few weeks drop away. Janie’s thoughts and feelings are plainly written on her face. And there’s no disgust or even pity there. All I see is compassion and understanding. That and a fierce love.

  She gets up and walks over to me. Gently takes me into her arms. When I respond, she hugs me hard. Tells me she loves me and that she’s sorry. I wrap my arms around her, pressing her head against my chest. What was I waiting for all this time, closed up tight and feeling so alone? Then I remember part of my concern.

  “Please don’t do anything crazy,” I say.

  “Look who’s talking! No, listen, I only want to speak to someone at the Law Guild. My friend Roberto. Don’t worry. I’ll keep it general.”

  I nod. I trust her.

  Then she surprises me by saying, “There’s a concert in the park tonight. Let’s go with the kids. I’ll pack a picnic supper.”

  SEVEN

  Janie

  There’s a knife in my hand and I’m cutting with it. I slice through the slightly elastic red skin into the white flesh beneath. The apple falls in pieces before me. My knife is not very sharp, but that’s OK, I don’t mind pushing hard with the blade. In fact, I would like to push harder. What else can I cut with my knife?

  The sandwiches have already been cut into quarters. I’ll make two more sandwiches and cut them up too. Laek will be hungry, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat at all. Carrots! I seize a thick one in my hand, peel its skin and chop it up violently.

  I am not a pacifist. I think I’ll finally have to admit this to myself. I’m not one in my heart, anyway. Laek, on the other hand, is a pacifist through and through. I go
along with him, actually agree with him, pushing away my baser instincts. I think that he’s much stronger than I am. He’s certainly more stubborn. Stubbornness takes a certain strength, doesn’t it?

  The cherries are purple-red and juicy. It’s because we have cherries that I thought of the picnic. I take them out of the bag, wash them and begin placing them in a plastic container, counting each one. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen … twenty-four, twenty-five … forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine … I don’t know why I’m counting the cherries. It’s a strange habit, like the way I count off the seconds while filling a pot of water. Maybe it’s a way of passing the time, and the fact that my mind can’t bear to be still. Right now I’m filling my head with numbers and cherries to avoid thinking about other things.

  The four of us bike over to the park, Laek in the lead with Siri sitting on his back rack, her good hand holding on to his seat. I’m nervous about her riding like this, but Laek and Siri only laugh at me.

  When we arrive at the park, there’s a long line to get into the concert. The whole area is gated off and they’re forcing this huge mass of people to enter in one little trickle so that our bags can be checked by security and a “voluntary” donation solicited for the free concert series. I look up at Laek and he says, “Come on.” We get out of the line and walk onto the path instead, away from the bandshell. This will be fine, better in fact. We won’t be able to see the band but we should still be able to hear the music.

  I let Laek choose the spot. I would have selected a spot closer, but he tells me not to worry because the wind will be blowing in our direction, bringing the music with it. I believe him, though I have no idea how he knows these things. I lay out the picnic and everyone digs in. Michael and some other of Siri’s friends find us and we share our food with them. Laek eats two and a half sandwiches and finishes everyone’s leftovers and I just eat cherries.